


(like gods) at the dawning of the world

by roseandthorns28



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alcohol as a Coping Mechanism, Elements of magical realism, Inception Reverse Big Bang Challenge 2016, M/M, light Violence, slight mention of recreational drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-30 04:03:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8517802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseandthorns28/pseuds/roseandthorns28
Summary: Eames wakes up in a strange world with no memory, no identification save a poker chip in his pocket. Six years later, once he's somewhat come to terms with the idea of having lost his identity forever, a man walks into his life- or well, makes an attempt on it, throwing his world out of balance. Eames has never felt a pull to another as he does to this man- Arthur.And the more he looks, the more he is convinced Arthur holds the key to answering all his questions.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the **Inception Reverse Bang**
> 
> Inspired by art from the extremely talented Celeste (dreammaidenn)  
> Beta'd by my lovely best friend, Julian.

__

 

_Darkness. Pinprick of light. There. Gone. There again. And gone. There… and gone again._

_Winking._

_“You can see about 2000 with the naked eye.”_

_Even with enhanced vision, they only look like tiny balls of light._

_Some bigger than the others, some close together almost touching….. Some far apart, nothing but the void between them._

_They wink, mischievous, then come together to form an image._

_Blink and you miss it._

_A pattern. A shape… A memory.. Just there, out of reach._

_“..my favourite.. orion..”_

_The hunter? Of course, it suits…. you? him?_

_…and gone again._

 

Eames wakes up disoriented, as is his wont, scrubbing a hand over his face and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Another night, another dream. It’s one of the more common ones, a sky full of stars and hints of a conversation. They come in flashes, feelings, pieces of a puzzle that he’s been trying to piece together painstakingly with very little to show for his efforts.  
He pushes himself off the mattress and scratches at his beard, smoothening it over his cheeks as he does his usual ritual of pissing, brushing and whiskey – not necessarily in that order.

He gets the call halfway through the day as he is contemplating spending another day going through the same old books, the same old trinkets of a stranger who used to be him. He looks over at the corner where the paint supplies are gathering dust. Tomorrow, he thinks, tomorrow I’ll finally paint something.

He is needed in Paris, an upscale job. A one-man job.

He has to break into a very high security facility and steal a very high value artifact. Par for the course for him no matter how risky it is. Especially if he’s expected to do the job without backup.

If it were anyone else, he would have long since said no. But it’s Saito who’s doing the asking. The man who picked him up when he woke up with no memory and no identity, dusted him off and put him to work. Saito is efficient like that.  
And, Saito is familiar with his abilities. Or at least the ones that Eames knows of. The rest is still a mystery. Just like his bloody life.

But such is life so he takes a quick shower, thanking the stars that the shitty warehouse loo has running water still, says his goodbyes to Yusuf and takes off.

Eames lands in an empty field and dusts himself off, making the walk into the city. Sometimes, it pays to have endurance like his that no amount of potions or enhancing runes can match. It also pays to wake up with a more than adequate fluency in French.  
He makes it in good enough time to get a room at a cheap, congested place in the city with his assigned credit card and establish reconnaissance. He whiles away the rest of the night in the streets of Paris, breathing in the bustle of the city.

At night he puts on his darkest pair of clothes and makes for the location.

When he is halfway through the safe, Saito’s voice comes up, terse and a hint of underlying tension (more than the usual) on the comms Eames always leaves in but never really uses.  
“Mr. Eames, it seems we have a traitor in our midst. Get out now.”

  
Eames is twice as quick getting out than getting in, making sure everything is as it should be before packing up his gear and making for a side exit. He keeps to the shadows, bends down to pick the lock. He is so focused that he doesn’t hear someone sneak up on him. It’s only as the arm is slung around his neck in a vise-like grip that he reacts.

The person is strong, unnaturally so, and Eames has to throw his weight backwards and roll them both to loosen the grip enough to stop cutting his circulation. He jabs his elbow backward into the solar plexus of the man -he can tell- and turns around, gun in hand, aiming for the slightly winded man on the ground. He finds himself staring down the barrel of an already drawn gun. Somewhere, he marvels at the speed of the draw and a synapse fires giving him a strong feeling of deja vu. Or deja pense, in this case.

“Looks like we’re at an impasse,” Eames quips as he kneels in front of the supine man. There is a sharp gasp from the man which forces Eames to look away from the gun and to the man wielding it. He is sharply dressed, three-piece suit and all, hair slicked back and brown eyes wide.

Eames makes another pass over his body, this time an appreciative one, making sure to keep the gun in his peripheral vision.  
“Well?” He prompts, unnerved by the silence. The man kicks out suddenly, making Eames’ hand go wide and he shoots. Eames feels the impact on his left shoulder and grunts in pain and annoyance. By the time he has his gun retrained, the man is up on his feet and has the gun pressed to Eames’ temple. There is a slight tremor in his hand.  
“Don’t follow me,” He whispers roughly before taking off in a run in the opposite direction.

  
It’s only as Eames lowers his gun that he sees the red die sitting there in the middle of the floor, the only hint that the other man was ever there.

 

  
_Bright lights, the mocking music of slot machines…_  
_…two poker chips rubbed together between his fingers.._

_“A kiss for good luck?”_  
  
_Laughter. Husky, scotch-soaked laughter and the clink of ice cubes against glass._

_A red die falling… falling…._

 

Eames sits across from Saito, swirling the expensive herb-infused whiskey in his glass that he’s too tired to identify. “So, who was that?” He asks, breaking the silence that had settled over them.  
“A man named Arthur. Hired gun.” Saito replies, motioning with a flick of his fingers to the man standing in the shadows. He comes over and hands Eames a slim file folder.

A quick perusal shows nothing more than a name, the affiliation with COBOL Engineering and snippets of incident reports or sightings. There’s not even a photograph. This could mean one of two things.  
Eames goes with his earlier observations and snorts. “Did COBOL send in a newbie? I’m insulted.”  
He looks up at his employer/sometimes-friend/adviser. He’s greeted with that infernal stoicism. “Why would you say that, Mr. Eames?”  
He shrugs. “Just a feeling I got. I mean, he had his barrel on my forehead and my head’s not blown to pieces.”  
Saito raises an eyebrow as if this was news to him. It could have been too, Eames muses, as he certainly disabled all surveillance on the property and he’s not the most thorough at incident reports.  
“No, on the contrary, the fact that you survived is… fushigi.” A miracle, Eames translates automatically. “He is one of the best in the business. I tried recruiting him earlier but received a very rude email in return. Seems like he’s loyal to COBOL.”

Eames takes a moment to process. “Arthur, that was his name, right? What more do you have on this Arthur?”  
Saito flicks his eyes down to the file. “Why?” He asks, no judgement, no offence just curiosity.  
Eames smirks slightly. “A curiosity. Man tries to kill me, I think I have the right to know who he was.”  
Saito gives him an amused chuckle. “He was just doing his job, Mr. Eames. But regardless, I’ll send you all that I have. In fair warning, there’s not much on him that’s not already in the file. I can’t guarantee anything.”  
“Something is better than nothing. I’ll take your leave now. I’ve got to see a man about some frankly unsavoury potions.”  
“Give Mr. Yusuf my regards.”

 

  
Eames walks into the dingy little apothecary, the tiny bell on the door signaling his arrival and a response of, “Be with you in a minute!” from the bowels of the shop. He wrinkles his nose at the gust of herb scented air, heavy with burning incense.

_Damn his sensitivity_ , Eames thinks as he buries a sneeze in the sleeve of his jacket. That damned cat must be loitering around somewhere, leaving behind trails of its annoying fur. “Ah, Eames. I knew it was you,” Yusuf says as he walked out, wiping his hands on a rag. “What can I do for you, my friend?”  
Eames smiles at that, taking comfort in the familiarity of his friend and occasional under-the-counter dealer’s presence.  
“You can tell me where I can find someone.”  
“Hmm. This person of yours, are they lost?”  
“Maybe. Probably just hiding.”  
“Someone from your past?”  
Eames pauses, raising an eyebrow at the question. “I wouldn’t know.”  
Yusuf scoffs. “Well maybe you should figure that out first, don’t you think? I keep telling you, my dream den is at your disposal.”  
“And I keep telling you that I don’t want to go in blind. Who knows what’s up here?” He says, gesturing vaguely at his own head.

Yusuf shrugs easily and pulls out the thermos from under the counter with two disposable glasses. As he unscrews the top, the aroma of freshly brewed soma wafts out. This is why he likes Yusuf. No questions asked and an ever ready flask.

“Perhaps you needn’t go in blind.” Yusuf says later, when they’re both slumped into the lumpy couch in the back, passing a spliff back and forth.  
“What?” Eames asks, confused and a little worried that maybe somehow his superior metabolism failed him this one time.  
“Into your head, I mean. You needn’t go in blind. You can take a dream walk. I know a guy.” Eames scoffs at that because when does Yusuf not know a guy.  
“Alright, put me in touch. Try anything once, that’s my motto.”

 

_Stars again… a faint breeze, the feeling of being tangled up in someone…_  
_Faint smell of citrus… and cologne._  
_“Light from the stars takes millions of years to reach us. Essentially, every time we look up at the night sky, we’re looking back in time.”_  
_“Why would I need to look back in time when I have all I need right here?”_  
_“You’re a sap. And not entirely subtle. I see where that hand is going…”_

 

When Eames pulls up in front of the address Yusuf had sent him, he is surprised to say the least.

He had expected a shop or a swanky office building, not a bloody house in the suburbs with a well manicured lawn and faint laughter of children carrying over the wind. Frowning slightly, he goes up to the front door and knocks, already planning out his revenge on his friend if he’d sent him on a wild goose chase.

The door opens to a blond man, squinting slightly in the bright sunlight. He looks a bit taken aback at Eames’ presence before his face sets into something more resigned.  
“Dominick Cobb?” Eames inquires, a pleasant, people-facing smile on his face.  
“Yes?” The reply is undercut with the faint sound of the safety of a gun being flicked back on which is slightly concerning as usually the response should be the opposite.  
“I’m a friend of Yusuf’s. My name is Eames.” He replies, ignoring the stiffening of the man’s shoulders. “I was told you could help me.”  
There is a moment of silence where he is sure he is being assessed by Cobb before there is a rustle of fabric and the door opens inwards. “Come in. We’ll talk in the study.” Cobb says, turning away. There is a distinct absence of firearms in his hand but if he concentrates, Eames can make out the imprint of it in the small of his back.

After a few curt instructions to the housekeeper to keep the children in the yard, the two men retreat to the study sitting across from each other, a big oak desk between them.  
“So.. how can I help you, Eames?”  
Eames sits back, right ankle resting on his left knee as he replies, “I need a guide for a dream walk.” Because of his careful observation of the man, he notices the surprise that flashes on his face momentarily. As if this is not the request he’d expected to hear. Nevertheless, Eames continues. “My memories are all out of whack and Yusuf is convinced a dream walk would help. He said you were the best there was.”

Cobb sighs, reaching into a drawer in his desk and pulling out a bottle of whiskey along with a glass tumbler. Rudely enough, he doesn’t offer Eames any as he pours himself three fingers of alcohol and takes a fortifying sip. “I don’t dream jump anymore. Not.. not after Mal.”   
“Mal?” Eames asks and is graced with another surprised look. “My wife,” is the succinct reply followed by another sip.  
“Look, Mr. Cobb, I was made aware that this might be hard for you but I’m asking you for a favour. My circumstances are not exactly common and I wouldn’t have come to you if I didn’t have any other option.”  
“I can’t! Mal won’t let me. There is too much of her in me to let me dream again. Find someone else.” Dom replies, placing the glass down a little bit harder than necessary, the crack echoing in the room.  
“I have no desire to bring your personal demons to light. I am willing to pay you a hefty sum for a jaunt in my head. If not that then, think of it as helping out a man in dire need of your assistance. Yusuf said-”  
“I don’t care. I said no already. I don’t do this anymore. I can’t. You’re not the first person I’ve had to turn away and you wouldn’t be the last.”  
“You can’t?” Eames asks a little incredulously. “Apparently your reputation of the best leaves something to be desired.”  
Cobb huffs. “Think of me what you like but you won’t get what you want here. If I didn’t do it for Arthur, I sure as hell won’t do it for you.”  
Eames freezes up completely, before leaning forward in renewed interest, his ire forgotten. “Arthur?” He whispers, heart racing in his chest, the red loaded die heavy in his pocket.  
Cobb pauses. “Does that name mean something to you?” He asks, a little perturbed.  
“Yes… something. I need to find this Arthur. What can you tell me about him?”  
“I can’t,” And if that isn’t slowly becoming Eames’ most loathed phrase. “It was a misstep. I’m not telling you anything about him. I promised. He wouldn’t want to see you anyway.”

There is an irrational clench of hurt before it transforms into anger. “Why the fuck not?”  
Cobb seems to be considering something before his eyes steel and he says, “He wanted me to take your memories from his mind. Trust me, it’s in your best interest to stay away from him.”  
There is a long drawn silence that Cobb uses to refill his glass. “…did you?” Eames brings himself to ask. Although, he has an inkling that the answer would be in the negative, going by the man’s reaction to him that night.  
“No, like I said, I don’t dream walk anymore.” Cobb sighs as if exhausted by the conversation. Well, tough shit.  
“How can you take memories from dream walking? It’s just a walk through the subconscious, isn’t it?”  
“It’s… experimental. Was experimental Something Mal and I were working on.”  
“Can you retrieve memories?”  
“I’ll say this one last time. I don’t do that anymore.”  
“Yes, alright, but someone like you… could they retrieve memories with the same technique?” Eames asks, a small sliver of hope reigniting in his chest.  
“…yes. Yes it’s possible. Not probable but possible.” Cobb looks at him for a long time before he polishes his drink off. “I can put you in touch with someone. Ariadne. She was my protege. She can help you.”

  
Eames lets out a small sigh, irritated at not having found all the answers but still a little glad he hadn’t hit a complete dead end despite Cobb’s efforts to stonewall him. He leaves with another bloody contact and a cryptic parting greeting from Cobb.

  
_“Don’t hurt him. He’s suffered enough because of you.”_

  
And he’d be lying if he said that doesn’t make Eames twice as determined to find out who this Arthur fellow was.

 

  
That night Eames dreams of minotaurs and a maze, the glimpse of a suited man turning corners, always out of reach. When he wakes up, its with his would-be-assassin’s name on his lips. He downs a half bottle of rum and makes his preparations to leave.

 

 

Ariadne is a slight slip of a girl, with an innocent face and a sharp mind. Her easy nature puts him at ease, as he suspects it is designed to. They share a coffee and warm dessert as she questions Eames without making it feel like an interrogation.

They digress into talks of repressed memories, philosophical ideals about identity and the mechanisms of dream walking itself. He finds he likes her much better than her mentor. Keeping out his abilities, he gives her a brief background about himself, of how he woke up in a hospital in the seedy part of London with no memories, a giant headache and nothing but a poker chip in his pocket.

Somehow, Ariadne’s sympathies don’t feel as grating as he expected them to. He smiles and shakes her hand, sealing the deal.

_Thousands of images flicker all around him, and Eames is lost in a veritable sea of memories assaulting him from all directions. “You’re not alone, Eames.” Comes a whisper and a slight hand takes his and suddenly he is in the middle of a field, standing next to Ariadne. “Hello,” she says, smiling slightly. “Hello there. What is this place?” “A safe haven. Think of it as the centre point. You can explore where ever you like.” There are paths leading in all directions. They are surrounded by tall trees.“Which way should I go?” “Any. You’ll only see what you wish to see. Doesn’t matter what road you’re on.” “You’ll be here, then? When I’m done?” “I’ll be here. Go, Eames. Something- or someone- is waiting for you at the end of the road.” Eames goes. Through the trees he can see glimpses, a battlefield, a palace, a citadel, a field of wheat, a windmill- he is assaulted from all sides by snatches of sights, sounds, smells mixing with each other in a cacophany of noise and colours. “Think about your goal, Eames.” Ariadne’s voice whispers in his ear, louder somehow than the noises of his memories. He closes his eyes and conjures Arthur’s face in his mind. And suddenly, he’s there in front of him, dressed in the fashion of the late 1800s and turning his nose up at the offering of gifts from suitors, donning a soldier’s uniform and pushing him into an alleyway for a quick kiss, removing a soldier’s uniform from Eames’ body- this time a different war, laughing with Eames as they loose themselves in acid but never loosing each other, sharing sombre moments with people falling sick around them- friends dying, ushering in the technological revolution, wearing frankly ridiculous outfits but thoroughly enjoying themselves in pubs- dancing till the wee hours of morning, falling into bed in a hotel room- drunk, signing the papers for a warehouse on the edge of town in London, fighting, making up, lying under the stars, talking and never shutting up, walking towards a nightclub, arm hooked with Eames’, startling at the sight of the men, fighting back to back with Eames, screaming incoherently as a bullet hits Eames right between his eyes._

 

Eames wakes up gasping, ripping the cannula from his wrist, uncaring about torn veins, hands going up to his head in an instinctual need to check for injuries. They come back clean, obviously, and he rubs his hands over his face, hunched over, tugging lightly at his beard as he tried to get his breathing under control. Slowly, ambient noises filter back in and he can hear the soft reassuring murmur of Ariadne’s voice, close by but thankfully not close enough to suffocate, the sound of traffic on the road below, a television program in the house above, inconsequential things that Eames uses to distract himself from the very real feeling of a bullet tearing through his skull.

A few shots of tequila (provided helpfully by his guide) later, Eames feels more like himself. He now has pieces of memories, a clearer picture of his past- although still as muddy as a windscreen in torrential downpour.

There are many things Eames could do when he goes home. But he feels a strong pull towards his paint supplies and he cracks them open, fishing them out before setting up in record time. The first smear of paint on canvas feels remarkably like coming home.

He resurfaces two days later, falling into a rickety chair with an exhausted sigh. The warehouse now smells like turpentine and is covered in the aftermath- splotches of paint on the floor, walls and, amusingly, ceiling, crumpled up sketches littering the floor and canvas after canvas of images from his dreams- his memories- sitting out to dry in various spots, some smudged in his haste to get the completed one out of the easel to replace with a blank one as he had been assaulted with glimpses, desperate to catch them all before he lost any.

The crowning jewel, however, is the 48x36 resting against the easel, a portrait of a man, looking to the side, cloaked in shadow, hues of yellow, burnt orange, haloing him and uncountable stars speckling the background, Arthur at the centre of the nebula, looking as if he might just step out of the frame any minute.

  
Eames gets up and walks over to him, fingers inches away from the slightly pinched features of his muse, taking care not to touch. “What have you done to me, Arthur?” He whispered plaintively before turning away and walking over to his stash of soma.

His phone rings out loudly in the silence, an immeasurable time later. He’s gotten a job it seems, not with Saito. His contract with the man does allow for external endeavours and sometimes Eames takes a few small jobs as a distraction.

This one is exactly what he needs, a stack of documents needed for some sort of corporate espionage that he doesn’t care to know more about. It had surprised both him and Saito when during his training, he’d churned out a seamless forgery; some kind of muscle memory guiding him through the motions.

 

A day later, he is ready at the drop sight, thick manila folder clutched in his hand. He has his guard up, ears and eyes out for anything suspicious. It’s an almost abandoned part of the shipping docks, forgotten amongst the newer, fancier facilities just a ways away. Perfect for the criminal underbelly of the city to use. He senses a man approach and takes another leisurely drag of his cigarette, leaning against the rusted metal of a container.

The man is shifty but unremarkable and he picks up pace when he sees Eames. Eames kills his cigarette, fishes the envelope out of his leather jacket and takes a few steps towards the fast approaching man who is now sliding his gloved hand out of his coat pocket. It is only his hypersensitivity that alerts him to a flash of metal and simultaneously, what sounds like two heavy duty SUVs pulling up, thudding footsteps coming from his right and from behind him. In a few seconds, Eames knows he will be well and truly surrounded.  
  
“Come now, gentlemen, we haven’t even haggled over the price yet.” He calls out, good-naturedly, as his hand slips inside his jacket to bring out the gun. The mousy looking man stops in front of him and sneers, emboldened by the sound of back up in the form of black clad men emerging to form a perimeter. He makes out six, not counting the man in front of him brandishing a syringe.  
“Put the gun down and we won’t have to hurt you.” The arsehole spits out.  
“Seven on one? Doesn’t seem to fair.” Eames replies, pointing his gun at the man’s forehead, ignoring the sound of six guns cocking behind him. Bullets he can handle but he’ll be damned if he lets himself be injected with whatever odourless, colourless shit that’s in that syringe.  
There is a second of tense silence that is broken by a soft snick of a knife being unsheathed that is inaudible to anyone but Eames.  
He keeps his gun fixed on the man in front of him, bracing himself for the pain. The knife bypasses him with a whoosh of air and buries itself to the hilt in the man’s neck. The container Eames has his back to emits a loud groan before there is a thud of a man landing behind him, creating spiderweb cracks in the concrete with the force of his landing.  
He takes his eyes off the gurgling man on his knees on the ground, trying to stem the bleeding, syringe broken, content spilled, and turns back.

Arthur is standing at his back, an FN SCAR-L braced on his shoulder. The men come out of their stupor and retrain their guns on the two but they’re quicker, him and Arthur, dispatching henchman after henchman until they are the only two left standing, breathing slightly heavily from a combination adrenaline and a few bullet wounds on each.

Eames tucks away the knowledge of their shared efficiency and the familiarity of being back to back on a battlefield in favour of turning to Arthur and giving him a wide grin.  
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” He asks.  
Arthur lets his rifle dangle from his hand as he turns to look Eames over. “Shut up and take me to the hovel you call home. We both need to get patched up.”  
Eames raises an eyebrow. “Might take some time for a taxi to get here.”  
“You and I both know we don’t need one. Let’s not pretend.” Arthur replies, moving past Eames to pull out the knife from the man’s throat and wipe it clean on the poor sod’s shirt.  
“As you wish.” Eames murmurs under his breath as he takes off into the air towards his warehouse.

Arthur follows closely his mouth a grim line and Eames ignores that to revel in the feeling of flying in tandem with someone.

 

When they land, Arthur makes a beeline for the back of the warehouse where the loo is as if he knows where to go. Eames doesn’t doubt it. Even though the man wrinkles his nose daintily at the dust and grime in the place, he doesn’t say anything, choosing instead to run the water and strip with a clinical efficiency as Eames fishes out the fully stocked first aid kit he has stashed for emergencies. They don’t make conversation as they wash their wounds and disinfect the forceps with the fifth of vodka they find above the sink. There aren’t that many bullet wounds but even with their hardy constitutions- and he has no doubt that whatever he is, Arthur is the same- being shot two or three times does tend to take a toll. Or this is how Eames justifies taking a few long swigs of the vodka bottle despite Arthur’s disapproving frown.

  
There is tension rolling off in waves from the man, the small room almost suffocating with it, and that is why Eames is so surprised when he feels a light touch to his bicep as he tries to get at the last wound- the one on his shoulder blade. “Let me.” Arthur commands quietly and Eames straightens, holding his wince as Arthur douses the wound in vodka and fishes out the slug before taping it up with some clean gauze and surgical tape. Although the injuries would heal in a day, Arthur had mumbled something about infection and covered all the tiny holes so Eames had followed suit.

 

After they’re done, they make their way outside and Eames leads Arthur to the makeshift closet where his clothes are stashed. “I’ll give you something to change into.” He says, binning the bloodstained white shirt Arthur had been wearing. The man glances mournfully at it and at the tie, vest and suit jacket discarded on the sink before sighing.  
“Sure. Although, if your taste in clothes is as bad as before then I’d rather not.”  
Eames scoffs. “Please. There is a saying about beggars and choosers that you would do well to remember.” He retorts.

  
Arthur grimaces when he sees his collection of patterns, eccentric colours and fabrics but miraculously fishes out a light blue shirt from some forgotten corner. When he puts it on, Eames has to press his lips together to hide the absurdity of Arthur in a shirt a few sizes too big for him as if playing dress up in his father’s clothes, but says nothing in the face of Arthur’s expression, daring him to comment. He gets himself a change of clothes, something comfortable and Arthur leaves him to it, choosing to go exploring instead.

As he is zipping up his trousers, Eames hears a sharp intake of breath and he knows Arthur has found the painting. A moment later, he is standing behind the man, looking at the rendition of the latter in oils. “Doesn’t match up to the original, I must say.” Eames hums good-naturedly.  
Arthur turns slightly, but doesn’t take his eyes off the canvas. “When- when did you do this?”  
“Few days ago. Sorry about the mess, though. I was about to clean up in here when my plans were waylaid by those morons taking a shot at me. Now, if only I could find out who the fuck hired them.” He looks expectantly at Arthur, eyebrow raised.  
“Saito..” Arthur growls under his breath.  
The tense silence is broken by Eames’ bark of laughter. “Right, pull the other one. Those weren’t Saito’s men. He has no reason to send hitmen after me. And even if he did, that is certainly not his style. I’d be dead before I even knew what hit me. He’s… subtle. Not bloody showdowns in the docks like a shit gangster film.”  
Arthur looks over incredulously, and a little incensed. “And how would you know what Saito’s style is?”  
“Because I bloody work for him, don’t I?”  
Everything in Arthur freezes and there is such beautiful, deadly rage on his features that Eames’ fingers twitch for something to capture it with. “You… work for Saito? The man who-”  
“The man who what? Found me when I was all alone, hurt and confused, not knowing what my name was or what bloody year it was? The man who helped me back on my feet, helped me find this place, gave me work, hmm?”

  
There is something approaching guilt on Arthur’s face but he quickly pulls his blank mask on. “Saito is the reason you were in that state in the first place.”  
“That’s rubbish.” Eames scoffs.  
“No it fucking isn’t.” Eames has the irrational urge to respond with a juvenile, ‘Yes it is.’ Instead, he breathes out through his nose and turns bodily to face Arthur. “What proof do you have?”  
“I have it on good authority.”  
“Whose?”  
“COBOL.” Arthur spits out as if parting with the information hurts him.  
“Oh your employers, wonderful. Not that COBOL has ever been involved in anything unsavoury.”  
“Shut up. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
“Perhaps you’re the one who doesn’t, Arthur. In case you forgot, I was living in relative peace working for Saito until you showed up in the middle of a job trying to put a bullet in my head. The first job I took after that, well… you were there.”  
Arthur looks like someone has just told him red is blue and his whole life is a lie. “I didn’t- you weren’t supposed to be there. It was a simple hit sanctioned by people wanting to protect their property.”  
“Surely you can’t be that naive.”  
Arthur snarls and steps forward, fists clenched as if to hit him. Eames raises an eyebrow and shifts as well, amped up and ready for a fight.  
“Fuck this. I don’t know why I thought-” He shakes his head and makes to leave.  
Eames reaches out grabbing Arthur’s bicep and throwing him into the wall with his weight. “Don’t you dare walk away from me, you wanker.”

  
Arthur scoffs, pushing Eames off with more force than necessary, causing him to fall back on his arse a few feet away. “That’s rich coming from you.” He sneers.  
“I didn’t leave you, I lost my fucking memories!”  
“I’m talking about before.”  
“And I don’t remember before, you sanctimonious prick! I don’t remember anything!”  
Arthur pauses, tilting his head to look at him before all fight leaves his body. “You don’t…. do you?” He asks softly, a defeated quality to his voice.  
“Not a thing. Other than my dreams and whatever mess I unearthed dream walking.”  
Arthur blinks at that and makes a visible effort to compose himself. Eames takes the moment to stand up instead of laying on the ground like a tit.  
“What do you want to know? I’m sure you have questions.”

  
Not expecting him to acquiesce, Eames takes a moment to corral himself before blurting out the most important one, the one on his mind ever since he woke up in that godforsaken hospital with minimal scarring.  
“What exactly are we? I know we’re not like other people. Even mages of the highest calibre don’t have the abilities we do.”  
“We’re… different, yes. There’s a lot we can do and a lot we can’t. People like us have- had- been around for a while. Now, I think it’s just the two of us although I can’t be sure.”  
“What does that even mean?”  
“Long story. But does it matter? I mean giving a name to what we are, who we are, it’s not going to change anything. People have called us a lot of things, gods, demons, sorcerers. None of that is exactly true but we have been around for a long time. None of us remember the beginning or how we came to be exactly. It’s… been a really long time.”  
Eames hums to himself, folding his arms in front of himself. “So we are like gods, are we?” He asks, humour dancing in his eyes.  
“You certainly seemed to think yourself a god.” Arthur chuckles. “I remember this one time in Greece-” He breaks off midway, shaking his head. “That’s… not important.”  
Eames frowns slightly. “I’d still like to hear it. Especially seeing as you were just about to use it as a character assassination.”  
“You don’t need me for that, Mr. Eames. You seem to do that all on your own.”

There is something easing between them at the light teasing, as if they were falling back into an expected pattern.  
Eames smiles slightly, stepping close. “Tell me what happened in Greece, Arthur.” He asks softly.  
Arthur looks at him and smirks slightly. Eames thinks like this expression on him the best. “Which time?”  
Before Eames can answer, there is a chime and Arthur fishes his phone out with a frown. “Shit. I have to… I kinda messed up back there. I have to fix it.”  
Eames frowns slightly, another question popping up in his mind. “How did you know where to find me? Were you following me?”  
Arthur snorts. “Don’t flatter yourself.” A pause. “It was a tracking spell. On the die. It wasn’t meant for you but- well, I guess it paid off in the end.”  
Eames raises an eyebrow. “But how did you know when to come?”  
Arthur’s expression turns slightly sheepish. “Alright, fine. I kept tabs on you, okay? I scried for you after- after Paris. Goes to show you can’t stay out of trouble for even a few weeks.”  
“I was doing pretty well for the past few years.” And apparently that’s the wrong thing to say because Arthur clams up, going rigid and clenches his jaw.  
“Yeah, well, sorry about that.” He says before walking quickly to the front door.  
Eames knows he should go after him but the exhaustion of the past few days catches up to him and he can do no more than slump down onto the rickety chair before picking up the bottle of whiskey he’d left out earlier and draining the damn thing.  
It’s only as he falls down onto his mattress and feels something poking his thigh that he blearily realises he still has Arthur’s die.

 

That night, Eames dreams of nothing.

 

Eames finds himself back in Saito’s office, questions burning on the tips of his tongue, demanding answers. He feels like he’s regressed back six years when he’d first woken up, searching high and low for answers. He feels like all he has are questions and with every one that gets resolved, three more take its place. Like a fucking hydra.  
With this maudlin mood, he takes a seat across from Saito and for the first time in the duration of their acquaintance refuses a drink from the man. He feels on edge, paranoid, and it’s best for both parties involved if he keeps his senses unclouded.

“How can I help you, Mr. Eames?” Saito asks. And Eames is so bloody tired of beating around the bush and cryptic conversations that he trashes all sensibility and asks, “Were you the one who ordered the attack on me six years ago?”  
The room is so silent, Eames can hear the flap of a fly’s wings on the window outside.  
“Whatever made you think that?” Saito asks, but his words are laced with a hint of danger, a tone he’s never used with Eames before.  
“I came into some information. Someone believes that you might be the one behind it.”  
“Was this information from COBOL Engineering?”  
“Why would you assume that?” Eames hedges, a little thrown even though by now he is used to the man’s almost omniscient nature.  
Saito stands up and walks over to his meticulously organised filing cabinet, pulling out a slim dossier. “I was wondering when it would come up. Ever since you made the request when I first met you, you haven’t taken any interest in your… unfortunate attack. However, it did not make me less inclined to collect information regarding that night, whenever I could.”

Eames takes the file but doesn’t open it. “What am I going to find in here?” He asks, fearing the worst like Arthur’s picture stuck on top with the words killer in red and a million arrows pointing to his face.  
“You’re going to find evidence that implies heavily that the hit ordered on you and your partner for the night was carried out by a man in COBOL Engineering’s pocket. An unscrupulous man named Nash. His body was found washed up on a beach few days after and it is only his incompetence that you survived.”  
Out of everything Eames could focus on, his mind gets stuck on one particular phrase. “Partner for the night?” He inquires slowly opening the file.  
“There were eyewitness accounts of seeing you in the company of a dark haired man that evening. However, since there was no body found nor anyone who came forward for you, it was assumed that he was a…”  
“Prostitute?”  
“Yes. Precisely.”  
Eames leafs through the pages of police reports, medical records, a few paper trails of a credit card, an electronic transfer. It’s flimsy but it helps bring Eames back to an even keel and solidifies the running theory he has in his mind.  
  
He shuts the folder and turns to face Saito. “What have you found on Arthur?” He asks in the tone of a man changing the subject.  
“Not much. Nothing that would be of interest to you.”  
“Is there any way to contact him?”  
“Contact him?” Saito asks in confusion. “No, he is closely associated with COBOL and only works for them or their sister corporation, Fisher-Morrow. The only thing he has is an email address from before he was working for them.”  
“He didn’t always work for COBOL?”  
“No, in fact before his contract with COBOL, Arthur was a freelancer of sorts. Like I said before, I tried to recruit him but at the time he wasn’t interested in anything concrete or long term. And the second time I tried, he was already contracted by COBOL.”  
“How long ago was this?” Saito pauses, giving Eames a reassessing glance. “Six years.” He says evenly.  
The timeline is not a coincidence.  
“Can I have that email please?”  
  
Saito gives it to him with minimal fuss.

 

“The warehouse. 7 pm -E” the email reads. He is not too concerned about not reaching Arthur. A man who keeps his hair under such stern control and has a tracking spell on a bloody die would at least have automated forwarding to a newer address, if not an actual schedule for checking it.

Arthur doesn’t disappoint and lands in front of the warehouse at seven sharp. When he enters, he looks less put together than before, missing his suit jacket, his gun brazenly on display in a shoulder holster. He looks weary. “Everything alright?” He asks cordially.  
“No everything is not fucking alright.” Arthur runs a hand through his hair, disheveling it lightly before scowling at his pomade covered hand and wiping it on his trousers. “I started looking into COBOL. Nothing adds up. And I fucking got a tail put on me. COBOL’s men.” He sighs. “This is such bullshit.”

Eames is a little surprised by the candidness but a tiny greedy part of him is hoarding away every bit of Arthur’s openness before it is locked up tight again.  
“Perhaps this might help.” He said, moving to the ornate desk pushed to the side and handing Arthur a tumbler of soma he had ready along with the file Saito had given him. Arthur accepts both, draining the glass more quicker than advised and scans through the file in a minute, his frown growing more pronounced by the second.  
“Fuck!” He exclaims throwing the file to the side causing the papers to flutter to the ground like confetti.  
“No need to be dramatic, darling.” The words fall out of his mouth unbidden.  
“Dramatic? This would mean that the entire time I’ve been-” Arthur stops mid-sentence. “You called me ‘darling’. Why.”  
Eames sighs, this one he’s the one to scrub a hand through his hair. “I.. don’t know. I t just slipped out.”  
“Don’t- don’t call me that again.” Arthur says and there is something a bit broken about him, standing here, in front of Eames a somewhat wild look in his eye.

“What are you to me?” Eames asks finally. “Why can’t I stop bloody thinking about you?”  
Arthur sighs and picks up his empty glass and sets it down again before turning away and wandering along the warehouse.  
“It is believed that we… beings like us, we were created in pairs. Like soulmates, if you will. There has always been a pull towards our… other half for the lack of a better word. Pairs were spread out over the entire world and sometimes you never found yours for decades. Or centuries.” Arthur pauses, and Eames waits, knowing what’s coming next. “We are one of those pairs.”  
There is a hint of remembrance, a connection is made and words fall involuntarily from Eames' mouth. “..whatever souls were made of, his and mine are the same.”  
Arthur snorts. “You always had a weird fondness for that book.” He turns back and smirks slightly at Eames. “You especially seemed to sympathise with Heathcliffe a lot.”  
This is a topic Eames has some authority on, having read the hundred-odd books in the warehouse at least once, and a few multiple times.  
“Well, his character does raise the age old question of nature versus nurture. And that at a time when both words were foreign to common knowledge in that context.”  
  
Arthur chuckles, but there is a deep sadness in his eyes. He quickly looks away and starts browsing through the shelf with interest even though Eames is sure he knows the contents like the back of his hand.  
“What is it?” He asks curiously, stepping closer to him.  
Arthur looks at him before looking away again and shrugging. “You have no memory.” He says, matter of factly. There is a beat of silence before he deigns to explain himself. “No memory of our time together… But I do. I have all of them. We… used to do that a lot. Talk about books.”  
  
Arthur turns to the side and walks along the shelf running his fingers along the wood, moving away as if it pains him to stay so close to Eames.  
“Why?” Eames asks, unable to think beyond the fact that Arthur had walked away. Arthur had knowingly, deliberately walked away from him, from their past and left Eames all alone to figure this world out, figure himself out on his own. “Why did you leave? I know you were there with me that night. But you left me alone. Why?” He repeats, age old hurts bubbling up.  
  
Arthur tenses up and Eames catches his jaw clench before it relaxes once more. “I have to go. I’ve already been here too long. Don’t contact me again.” He says, walking towards the skylight a few paces away, his intentions clear.  
Before Eames can voice a protest, Arthur turns slightly, looking at Eames over his shoulder. Something seems to break loose in him, the frigidity receding as he adds, “I have to sort this mess out with COBOL. I’ll come back here when I can. I’m sorry I can’t provide you with all the answers you want… or deserve.”  
And then, he is off.  


Eames stands there for a long time, watching the dust motes dancing in the light, having been disturbed by Arthur’s flight. On some level, he empathises with the feeling of having your entire existence be thrown astray by Arthur.

 

_Why stars? He asks the Arthur he’s conjured up in his dream. Or perhaps this is a memory. He isn’t sure._  
_Because I identify with them._  
_Well, you are as hot as gigantic balls of fire._  
_No you idiot. Laughter, melodious and deep. Just… in a world that’s changing all the time, the stars in the sky are one of the few constants. It feels like even if the world were to crash and burn, again, they will still be up there._  
_Someone’s melancholic._  
_No.. no just… oh god, shut up. I don’t get moody after soma. This doesn’t prove anything._  
_You know how I get after soma?_  
_What?_  
_Randy for you._  
_Oh god, Eames. And then, some time later, in a very different tone, Oh.. god.. Eames.._  
_A glimpse of long legs, a tattoo of the constellation Lyra on a pale hip, sharp hipbones under his palms._

 

“I’m starting to think I should have a regular appointment made for you, Mr. Eames.” Saito says as Eames sits down across from him again. “Sorry. I know your time is precious but-“  
“Oh no, don’t apologise. It is not a hardship. Tell me, how can I help you?”  
Eames likes that that’s how Saito always brings up their business-no what are you doing here, no are you alright-, whether it is a cultural thing or a Saito thing, it is very well received.  
“I wanted to inform you that your information was absolutely correct. I discovered a few more… pieces and I think COBOL was behind the… attack.” He says, wincing inwardly at the word. “And, I would also like to apologise for my somewhat brash accusations the last time I saw you. You’re a good friend, Saito and I should never have doubted that.”

Saito sits back in his chair, seemingly amused. “No apology necessary, Mr. Eames. You were acting in self-preservation. A quality I admire most in you. However, I must say your… information comes a little too late.”  
Eames raises an eyebrow, a little- no, a lot- taken aback. “I don’t know what you mean.”  
“I just received information- anonymously- regarding the hit COBOL put out on you. All three of them.”  
“You mean Arthur and those goons on the docks.” Eames says rather than asks. He had kind of figured it came from the same source.  
“Yes, that’s not all. I also received a very detailed file about various other wrongdoings of COBOL including information about their current financial situation and insider information that could be devastating for the company.”  
“You’ve got a spy in COBOL?”  
“No. Nothing of the sort. It came from a… wronged party, I think the note said. A complete dossier. Very meticulous.” Eames takes a moment to absorb the information. “What are you going to do?” “I think the more appropriate question is what are you going to do, Mr. Eames?”  
“I.. nothing. I trust you.” Eames replies, a little confused. Surely Saito didn’t think he was hot-headed enough to launch a one-man vendetta against what was essentially a mafia posing as an energy company.

Saito inclines his head in respect. “Thank you. I shall ensure that it is not misplaced.”

As Eames is leaving, Saito calls out to him.

“Oh and Mr. Eames? Give my best to Arthur and tell him that if he were ever in the market for a job, my doors are always open.”

Eames leaves feeling a little perturbed but mostly relieved. Well, that was one loose end.

 

He stops by Yusuf’s next to replenish his supply of soma, taking the opportunity to catch up with his friend, laughing and teasing each other. He does, however, need something else from Yusuf and he carefully brings up the topic of immortal beings, of forgotten gods, of myths, anything that could explain what the fuck Arthur had been on about. Yusuf takes his newfound curiosity in stride and promises to deliver anything and everything he could about beings like the ones Arthur described. Beings like him, them.

Over the course of the next few weeks, Eames slowly starts going through the information Yusuf sends him or going out to conduct his own research in the lulls between the passages and scanned copies of books and grimoires Yusuf provides so helpfully. He takes a couple of jobs, nothing too strenuous, focusing his entire energy instead on his quest to find something, anything, that can help him understand himself.

There is a lot of information to sort through, dating back millennia ago. In the end, his efforts yield fruit and he comes across The Myth of Aristophanes. From there, he discovers a lesser known version, an older one, a localised folk tale passed down orally to explain the origin of life and love on the earth, dating back to before Plato. Before even the monopoly of Zeus on the minds of the people.

 

> _The Sky-god, overseer of all, created the sun, the moon, and the earth and he was content with his beautiful creations. But the three siblings felt rather lonely even in each other’s company. So they went to the All Father and asked him if they could have some company. The All Father looked at his children and said, Sun you are too bright. Any children of yours shall perish in your presence. To the moon He said, Moon you wax and you wane. Any children of yours shall perish in the journey. To the earth He said, Earth, you are the only one here capable of nurturing your children. You shall have what you seek. Here, the earth stepped forward and she said, Please father, I shall care for the children of my siblings. Please do not deprive them of this honour. Pleased by the love between the three, The Sky-god granted them their wish. And thus, the First Ones were born. They were round like their parents and had two face on opposite sides, the better to see with, four arms in all directions and four legs to talk whichever way they pleased. The children of the sun were all male, like their father. The children of the earth were all female, like their mother. The children of the moon were all androgynous, like their creator. At first, there was harmony as all the First Ones lives amongst themselves in peace, wanting for nothing. But slowly, the sun and the moon grew tired of seeing the same things again and again. They looked down from the sky and nothing had changed. The First Ones, in their contentment, were unremarkable. With nothing to drive them, they were no better than the rocks that adorned their sister’s body._  
>  _And so, they went to the All-Father, the Sky-God, and put forth their problem. The All-Father listened and called all the First Ones to him. Slowly, he plucked each one and tore them in half, leaving each one with one face, two arms and two legs. The First Ones then began searching wildly for their other half, so they could be whole again. Because they were the First Ones, they could not grow old until they had become whole again. The earth, seeing the state of the children she had nurtured for so long, felt grave sorrow and in her sadness wept and shook causing her surface to break apart, and the First Ones to scatter all over. Her tears became the salty oceans and in her mindless grief, she had separated the First Ones even further away from their other half. Being so far apart, their longing for their other half was so great that even when they were whole again, their children and the children of their children still felt that same longing, the desire to be with the one who made them whole again._

He keeps reading the tale again and again, unable to put it down for more than a day and something seems to resonate within him as if he is aware, somewhere deep down, of the veracity of the now forgotten old-wives tale.

During the days, he lives with the absence of Arthur and at night he dreams of him.

 

_Did you leave me so you could live forever? He asks Dream-Arthur._  
_I never left you. I have always been here with you._  
_When he looks over, it is at a withered old man, hunched over._  
_When he reaches forward with his own wrinkled and liver-spotted hand, the figure crumbles into dust._

 

In the end, Arthur is the one who comes to him, throwing down a newspaper at his feet where they’re resting on top of the desk as he works on a couple of fake IDs. The newspaper headline gleefully announces the hostile takeover of COBOL Engineering by Proclus Global with a schadenfreude characteristic of media outlets. Fleetingly, he thinks that Arthur must have a hidden flair for dramatic, or perhaps he’d just rubbed off more on the other man, because there is absolutely no reason for him to waste a pound thirty when he knows in his bones that Arthur is more of a digital man.

“Hello to you too, darling.” Eames says jovially.  
“Don’t call me that.” Arthur bristles. “Did you tell him to do that?” He asks, pointing at the newspaper.  
“It was your information that lead to this. I don’t understand why you’re so angry about it.” “Did. You. Ask. Him. To. Do. This.” Arthur asks again through gritted teeth. Eames lets his feet drop down and stands up, and it is only then that he catches the faint whiff of soma. Ah, that explains the mood, then.  
“No, I didn’t. I still don’t understand why you’re so bothered.”  
“Because the Eames I knew would never indulge in political games.”  
“Well, the Eames you knew is dead.” He ignores Arthur’s full body flinch. “And frankly, my dear, if you gave a damn then you wouldn’t have left me floundering for six bloody years.”  
“I didn’t- you were fine. You didn’t need me.” “That’s a fucking lie. I needed you the most that time.”  
  
Arthur is silent, looking off in the distance, jaw clenched so hard Eames is sure he’ll crack a molar. But right now he is too incensed to care about Arthur’s dental hygiene.

Years of hurt pour into the words he spits out next.  
“Why, Arthur? Why did you leave? Was it the allure of being immortal? Yes, I know about that, thanks very much for that tidbit.”  
  
Arthur punches him in the face rather  unceremoniously.  
“Are you fucking kidding me? I was the one who wanted to be immortal? You didn’t want anything more than a couple of months together! As soon as we felt our powers fading, you left! You fucking left me just because you were too much of a coward!”  
  
Eames spits out blood and launches himself at Arthur, knocking him down and gripping his prim waistcoat in his hands. “You’re a fucking liar! If you wanted me, you would have stayed. You would have come back, done something.”  
Arthur snarls and rolls them over straddling Eames as he screams in his face.  
“You didn’t know me! You were dying, I was injured and I had to leave you all alone- fly to the fucking end of the world- to make sure you’d live, you ignorant ass! I did it all for you! It was killing me but I still did it… I flew until I couldn’t anymore and then you’d forgotten me! Forgotten every thing! Every memory of our time together! I came back after having almost killed myself and you couldn’t even be bothered to remember me!”  
Eames’ grip on Arthur’s clothes eases slightly. “You… came back?”  
“Of course I fucking came back! I loved you, you asshole! I loved you! I… I loved you and you didn’t remember! Fucking asshole! Why couldn’t you just remember?”  
Eames places his hand on the back of Arthur’s head, cradling it as carefully as a new born babe’s, and draws him close to his chest, holding him there as the other man keeps on hitting Eames with clenched fists, more a sign of frustration than any intent to hurt.  
  
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m here now, darling. I’m here now and I’m not going anywhere.”

 

Hours later, they are lying in the same spot, curled up together, simply soaking each other’s closeness.  
“Tell me about it. How did it happen?” Eames asks, breaking the silence between them that seems comfortable yet profound at the same time.  
“How did what happen?”  
“Don’t be dense, Arthur, you know what.”  
Arthur sighs and places his hand on Eames’ chest. “We’d been together for about a month. It was pretty long for us considering… considering you spooked every time we hit the two week mark.”  
“What were we doing?”  
Eames can feel Arthur smile slightly. “Eurotrip. You wanted to see how everything had changed. We were in London, some stupid nightclub. There were rumours the bartender was an incubus.”  
  
“Was he?” Eames asks stroking Arthur’s hair which has lost its severity after their bout and hours of lying pressed together.  
  
Arthur stiffens. “We never did find out. They… they got us on the way there.”  
Eames tightens his grip around Arthur’s waist.  
“It was- it was horrible. You were bleeding out, I was disoriented. It hadn’t exactly been a fair fight and we were drunk and weak… I think- I think that was when I realised why you didn’t want to stay together like all the others. Watching you bleed out like that- feeling so fucking helpless- I..” Arthur breaks away, swallowing wetly. “It was the worst thing I have ever been through.”  
“Is that why you stayed away?”  
Arthur turns to bury his face in Eames neck. After a few fortifying breaths, he answers. “No- well, yes mostly. But also, like I said, you didn’t know me from Adam. After all those years- decades of being with you, if only for a few days every six months, I couldn’t take it. I ran.”  
“And then COBOL found you.”  
“I think they never lost me.” Arthur sighs. “You don’t remember but I was a freelancer back then. I never really wanted to tie myself to one single client because I’d seen good men being turned into pawns at the hands of powerful ones too many times to let myself make the same mistake. I think- I think COBOL wanted a hitman on a short leash and I was one of the best-”  
“Still are, I’m sure.”  
Arthur chuckles. “Thanks, I guess.”  
“So they wanted me out of the picture. Give you a reason to hitch your cart to that particular horse.”  
  
Arthur raises up with a slight frown. “I don’t think that’s the right idiom.”  
“Who bloody cares, get on with the story.”  
Arthur rolls his eyes. “Yes, what you said. It was Nash who told them. He used to be one of us. But he never found his mate and he kind of went mad because of it. He sold us out to COBOL. From then, it was easy pickings. Especially since we were… vulnerable together.” Arthur adds the last few words a little stiffly, as if they belong to someone else.  
  
Eames feels a rising need to kick past-him in the arse.  
“I was an idiot. Don’t listen to what I said.”  
“No, you were right.” Arthur replies in the hardened voice of a man who’s had to convince himself of the same idea. “If we hadn’t been together-”  
“Nash wasn’t with his mate and he still went barmy and got offed by some thug in an alleyway.”  
“That’s different. Our earlier arrangement was fine.”  
“Perhaps I’m tired of just fine, Arthur.”  
Arthur props himself on an elbow to looks at Eames, something akin to hope alighting in his eyes. Eames wants nothing to smother that look and so before Arthur can spout some nonsense excuse again, he adds, “We’ll figure that out later. We have all the time in the world, darling.”  
  
Arthur rests his head back down and doesn’t protest the moniker.

 

They spend the next day together, going out to eat at the Indian place on the corner of the street, Eames needling out stories from Arthur, tucking away every single tidbit offered to him about the other man. It feels very much like a beginning, the honeymoon period of getting to know someone. After a long walk back to the warehouse, spent with Eames whispering sweet nothings and Arthur laughing and pushing him away but also blushing so prettily at some of the more raunchy suggestions, drunk off the presence of each other, they fall into bed, tangled up in each other in a more profound sense than just the physical.

  
Eames exhales softly, watching as the smoke mushrooms into the air before dissipating. A long fingered hand snatches the cigarette out of his hand and Eames turns his head to watch Arthur suck at the butt of the cigarette before giving a soft sigh and blowing out smoke.  
“I miss turkish cigarettes.”  
“I’ve never been to Turkey,” Eames replies absently, still watching Arthur’s profile in fascination.  
Arthur scoffs. “Of course we have. Remember-“ he cuts off and Eames can feel the man tense up all along his side.  
“No, I don’t remember, actually.” Eames says companionably as he plucks the now forgotten cigarette out of Arthur’s hand. “Was it nice?”  
“Right.” He replies, his voice sounding flat and unemotional.  
Eames looks over in surprise. “You didn’t really think your cock would magically bring back all of my memories, did you?”  
Arthur flinches before he shoots Eames a glare and gets up. “No, I really didn’t.” He replies tersely as he begins snatching up his clothing and putting it back on in a flurry of movement.  
  
Eames frowns in confusion and gets up, the lit cigarette falling from his hand and rolling away on the floor. “Arthur… what’s wrong?”  
“Nothing, Eames. I just… I need to get going. I have a job lined up and I can’t afford to waste more time here.”  
“Waste more time? You certainly didn’t seem to think it was a waste when you were moaning around my cock.”  
  
Arthur pauses and glares at Eames in barely contained anger. “You’ve got to be a real bastard to throw sex in my face just to win an argument.”  
“You should know exactly what kind of bastard I am, if you claim to know me so well.”  
“I do know you, Eames. I know more of you than you ever will.” Arthur replies, smiling nastily as he zips up his trousers. Dressed only in that and his shirtsleeves, Arthur takes off, not even bothering to put on his shoes.

The forgotten cigarette is thrown up in the air, following the trajectory of Arthur’s path for a few centimetres before falling to the ground, extinguished.

 

Eames doesn’t hear from Arthur or see hide nor hair of him for a few days. Three days and seven hours if he’s counting. He spends that time surprisingly sober, considering the circumstances, instead starts looking for Arthur with renewed determination. The email he had used before is useless, a failure notice gracing his inbox every time he tries. There is no number, no information anywhere and like a moron, Eames hadn’t ever asked for an address or a mobile number.  
It is as the twelfth hour of the fourth day of no contact elapses that he gets a call.  
Surprisingly, it’s from Dominick Cobb. Eames waffles about for a moment, trying to decide whether to take it or not before he realises that Cobb had known Arthur, had even behaved as if he were someone who was invested in Arthur’s well being. A friend. And, damn him if that cryptic warning doesn’t make more sense now in the face of all the new information Arthur had dropped on him about how much of a bastard Eames had been to him.  
  
So, Eames picks up as soon as the fifth bell rings out. “Hello?”  
“Come get your mate. I have children in the house and his drunken moping is putting them off their food.” Is the curt demand before there is a loud clatter, a muffled curse and the call is ended.

Eames flies to Cobb’s house as fast as he can without killing himself with exhaustion and dropping out of the sky like a poor facsimile of Icarus. By the time he reaches Cobb’s house, it is dark already and even though he is let in, there isn’t much he can do other than curl up on the guest bed beside a passed out Arthur reeking of soma and whiskey. A deadly combination if there ever was any.

Arthur wakes up at the crack of dawn, nuzzling into Eames’ chest sweetly before he pulls away in alarm. “Eames?” He whispers in confusion in the space between their bodies.  
“Shhh, s’early. Later.” Eames mumbles back, rolling over to trap Arthur underneath half his body and falls back asleep.  
They take their leave from Cobb at a more reasonable hour and Eames finally sees the two children- James and Phillipa- when they come out to say goodbye to their Uncle Arthur. Before he can ask if Arthur would prefer to fly in a more normal way, he takes off from Cobb’s backyard leaving Eames to follow him.  
  
Thankfully, Arthur flies back to his warehouse, the two taking breaks in between and it is approaching night when they reach.  
Arthur stand a little uncertainly at the threshold causing Eames to quip, “Are you expecting me to carry you across? Because I certainly wouldn’t mind.” Arthur rolls his eyes but Eames spies a dimple on his cheek and is instantly buoyed.  
  
They walk in, share some cold pizza with Arthur grumbling about the lack of a micro.

Having sated their hunger, they lay down beneath the skylight, open to provide them a view of the sky above.  
  
“I’m sorry. It was stupid of me to get drunk and have you pick me up from Dom’s like some sort of… naughty child.”  
Eames snorts. “That’s quite alright. You always get maudlin on soma.” “I do not! I can’t believe of all the things you remember.” Arthur huffs.  
“Sorry, darling but there’s enough proof already. And I’ve only known you for a few months.”  
  
Arthur’s expression wavers before he sighs. “I also wanted to apologise for running out like that. It was childish and stupid. You’ve been nothing but good to me and I acted like…”  
“Like a right bastard?”  
“Well, yes.” Arthur snorts in amusement. “We both said things we didn’t mean. Can we just forget that and move on?”  
  
Eames ignores Arthur’s request… for the time being at least and turns on his side to face him.  
  
“Answer me this, though. What happened then? One minute we were both sharing a fag and the next you look like someone backed over your cat.”  
Arthur keeps his eyes fixed on the stars above. “I was reminded of the reality of our situation.”  
“What on earth does that mean?”  
“Don’t pretend to play dumb, Mr. Eames. It doesn’t suit you.” Arthur replies, finally glancing over at him.  
“I’m not. I’m genuinely confused.”  
“It means… you don’t remember. And for a moment I’d forgotten what that was like. When we’re together, really together, it… it feels- well, you know how it feels.” Arthur shrugs, a slight movement Eames feels, pressed up as he is against him.  
“Timeless.”  
“Yeah… and eternal and all that flowery bullshit you first used to whisper to me when you were courting me.”  
  
Eames knows they have things to discuss, years and years of resentments and hurts to sort out, but now is not the time for that. Now when he finally has Arthur within his arms. Or near enough. So, he takes the first digression he can.  
“I courted you?” He asks incredulously.  
Arthur rolls his eyes. “Language was different back then but in essence- yes, you courted me. Although you always preferred the word, ‘woo’.”  
“I would have assumed in our situation it wasn’t really needed. It’s not like there was any question of whether we were meant to be together or not.”  
“That’s true but I’m not easy, Mr. Eames.” Arthur replies, smirking slightly. “I never have been. Not even for my soulmate.”  
“Mm, easy is not one of the words I’d ever use for you, Arthur.”  
  
There is a shared smile between them, a moment that stretches around them, enclosing them in a world of their own.  
  
“So, what changed?” Eames asks, reluctant to break the moment but desperate to know. “Or rather, what can change? I don’t think I could bear you walking away from me like that again.”  
  
Arthur flinches slightly at the reminder. “I… I don’t know. I can’t erase my memories of our time together. Even if there was a way…” He trails off, looking away, shoulders hunched looking more like a scared young man in spite of himself. “I couldn’t do it. I don’t know what to do. There isn’t exactly a manual for this sort of thing.” He snorts.  
  
Something tugs inside Eames’ chest and he places his palms on Arthur’s shoulders, hovering over him as he looking into his eyes. “I know, darling. Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out. We always have.”  
  
Arthur relaxes back against the thick blanket they’d spread out and reached up to card a hand through Eames’ hair.  
“You don’t even know that, Eames.” Arthur replies, his tone lacking the weight it did previously.  
“No, but the fact that you’re still here with my sorry arse proves we must have been doing something right.”  
Arthur chuckles. “Your ‘arse’ is anything but sorry.” He says, his other hand sneaking down to grope teasingly.  


Later, they are lying in bed together, a sheet draped across their naked bodies perfunctorily, curled towards each other like two parentheses.  
  
“This is new.” Arthur says, tracing a finger along the intricate patter running along his shoulder and down his bicep.  
Eames stiffens slightly, gaze zeroing in on Arthur, looking for any sign that the other man might flee at the reminder.  
Arthur looked up at Eames, “What? What happened?”  
"Nothing. Yes, it's new.”  
"I like it."  
"It's for protection. Against..."  
"..nightmares." Arthur finishes softly. "You have nightmares? "  
"Sometimes." Eames pauses. "Do you?" he asks, turning the conversation to him, unwilling to let them spiral down into the reminder of his deficit.  
"Have nightmares? Often. Sometimes I have good ones too," Arthur says softly, fingers tracing the rune with a slight pressure. "Somehow they're worse."  
"How come?"  
"It reminds me of what I don't have." Arthur flicks his gaze up to Eames once before letting it fall back onto his torso.  
  
They fall into silence, Eames on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something to send Arthur running again.  
"I tried to… I tried to get rid of them when it got too much." The words wring out of Arthur like a confession.  
“Cobb." Eames supplies in understanding.  
"Yes, he… you know about that?"  
"Just that you tried to erase all memories of our time together." Eames retorts, an involuntary tint of bitterness in his words.  
"It wasn't- it wasn't like that, Eames." Arthur replies sitting up, eyes wild with fire, a hand gripping Eames shoulder. "You don't know what it was like, okay? It was torture."  
"Perhaps. Perhaps I don't know exactly what that was like but I know a thing or two about being tortured by the past. In my case, it was the lack of one."  
The wildness in Arthur’s expression subsides and he snorts. "Diametrically opposed, that's always been us."  
Eames smiles slightly, tension easing out from his body as well, as he sees the humour in the situation. "Like two puzzle pieces," he adds, taking Arthur's hand in his and kissing his knuckles softly.

After six years of knowing just emptiness, of feeling scooped out like a melon, the feeling of being whole again overwhelms Eames and he vows to himself that come what may- the many fights they are sure to have, the reality of their jobs, the danger from others, the danger from their own pride and stubbornness- he is not letting Arthur go. Not this time. Not ever.

  
  
_Somewhere, a dying god breaths out his last, finally at peace, all his First Ones as they should be, whole again._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Celeste for that wonderful piece of art without which this fic was not possible. 
> 
> **Certain clarifications:**  
>  1) This fic is partially inspired by the Will Smith movie, Hancock in terms of the mythology behind Arthur and Eames.  
> 2) The constant references to 'soma' are a nod to _A Brave New World_ by Aldous Huxley.  
>  3) _The Myth of Aristophanes_ is from Plato's Symposium however the folk tale is simply a product of my imagination. Apologies to Plato for implying he plagiarised.  
>  4) The title is a quote from _The Song of Achilles_ By Madeline Miller.  
>  5) I am not British or even American and hence any inconsistencies are to be blamed on my ignorance alone. 
> 
> My tumblr is roe-sesandthorns.tumblr.com. Come say hi. :)


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